A poem written by Comandante Simon in our civil war

Somewhere, someone is mourning

for the body of a brilliant one.

Man or woman, it doesn't matter.

The tears in this country, an entrance

to a void . . . shadows touching skin like frost.

A star fell north of this city. Armies parade around

in their uniforms bragging about the killings.

Dead bodies thrown into a pit, cry.

Flesh hits wind, wind hits flesh.

How many dead?

Finally, they are covered with dirt at noon.

All eyelids are closed.

No one knows nothing.

No breathing assaults to hold us.

The bitter tear over the world,

and no other country does not want to taste it,

taste the dead on their tongue or wipe away all the weeping.